Till Death
by railise
Summary: Arthur is losing hope that Gwen will recover from a creature's attack. 3rd place winner in Round 6 of 4 evermore's Arthur/Gwen Last Author Standing at LiveJournal.


Arthur shut the door to his chambers- their chambers- afraid to let himself hope as he eyed the small bottle Merlin had just given him. It was not the first potion Gaius had concocted, and none of the others had changed her condition in the slightest. The flecks shimmering throughout the purple liquid rendered redundant Merlin's warning that this potion was different and his hesitant explanation as to why; the particles almost looked like tiny lights, the way they reflected the candle flames. Perhaps they _were_ tiny lights. Still, Arthur's attention was not on the contents of the vial or what they implied. It was all directed to the woman laying in the bed, terrifyingly still, as she had been since he placed her there four days ago. His wife.

Guinevere.

He returned to the chair by her side, which he had occupied almost ceaselessly, leaving it only to sleep next to her when he could no longer remain awake. Dropping into it, he took her hand once more. In a moment, he would administer the potion; but, after so many disappointments with the others, he was reluctant to get his expectations up again.

Of all days for them to have been attacked, why did it have to be that one?

Prior to the wedding, Arthur had not felt any of the nervousness that apparently was common amongst grooms. He was too pleased to be calm, but he felt not a hint of doubt or anxiety. Standing at the front of the Great Hall, he was a bit jittery, only because he wanted to get on with it. He wanted Guinevere to be standing with him, the vows exchanged, and them to be man and wife. Now.

Then, the doors at the end of the hall opened for her, their eyes met across the space, and a satisfaction unlike anything he had ever known settled over him. It deepened throughout the brief ceremony, and as he kissed her, he felt their oaths settle into his soul. Most royal marriages were little more than a contract, but this was a true bond. He had occasionally wondered why his father never remarried, yet since falling in love with Guinevere, he had understood it better. Now that she was his wife, he understood completely. It was not merely words or a gesture, nor simply a legal action. He was hers forever, for all time, in this life and the next.

When the windows exploded into the room and a large beast swept in, breathing fire, it was difficult to immediately redirect his attention from her. Pandemonium ensued as he unsheathed his sword and rushed at the creature. It was large, the size of an enormous ox, and was covered in a shaggy fur the color of old moss. Attacks seemed to bounce off of it without effect, except for one: it became agitated, its fur stiffening into quills. By then, the hall was deserted by any who were not trained to fight, who knew when danger was imminent and how to take cover. Except, there was no cover at the front of the room, the thrones having been removed to accommodate the wedding.

Time slowed to a crawl as Arthur tried to reach Guinevere, to act as her shield; he could not move fast enough. The quills that shot in his direction did not make it through the multiple layers of clothing and armor he was wearing; yet, she had no such defenses, her light confection of a gown offering no resistance against the onslaught. He caught her as she collapsed, staring in horror at the half-dozen arrowlike protrusions dotting her dress.

He had never felt so helpless in his life. A roar behind him brought his attention back to the malefactor, and he quickly, yet gently laid Guinevere down before swinging around, sword at the ready. The thing's tail was swinging at him, and their opposite movements resulted in a clean slice, severing the appendage and bringing the beast down.

While Arthur was glad to have dispatched it, he would more gladly trade his well-being for Guinevere's. He was later told that they were fortunate that the monster had not unleashed the quills at full force, which would have killed her on impact; beyond the poison they carried, they had only caused surface damage. The marks had already begun to heal, and would soon be gone altogether. However, while Gaius had managed to stop the spread of the venom within her body, he had not yet been able to extract it. Thus, she hovered in this limbo, the gown which Arthur had previously anticipated removing instead cut away to treat her wounds, the bridal bed become a sickbed.

She could not die. The world would not be complete without Guinevere in it, without her goodness. More selfishly, _he_ would not be complete without her, without her love, her companionship, or her abiding support. He would not live if she did not. He might continue to breathe, eat, speak... but he would not truly survive losing her.

If this potion worked, he would ignore everything it meant. He would not care that his servant and friend had been using magic underneath his nose the entire time they had been associated. He would forgive the countless lies that had resulted, the sense of betrayal that would normally come of having been so thoroughly deceived. If this worked, he would reward what would otherwise have been severely punished.

If it did not work, he would not care enough to deal with it, anyway.

His heart pounding madly in apprehension, Arthur removed the cork from the vial. Elevating her head, he carefully tipped the contents of the small bottle between her lips, and then laid her back down. He watched tensely for any sign that it was working, desperately willing it to do so.

However, nothing happened. After so many other failures, he did not know why he felt this disappointment more keenly; yet, rationalization did not assuage his pain. Slumping back into his chair, he dropped his head on the coverlet beside her hand.

It took him a moment to notice the pale, blue light. His head shot up, but he could not see clearly through his tears. Impatiently wiping the moisture from his eyes, he was stunned to see Guinevere engulfed in a a pulsing glow. It began to ebb, leaving her fingers and toes first, then her arms and legs, finally moving up her throat; suddenly, she let out an extended sigh, a sparkling, purple cloud drifting from her mouth and dissipating before reaching the canopy.

In disbelief, he looked back down, just in time to see her blink and focus on him. "Arthur?" she asked, her voice a little hoarse from lack of use. Shifting, she winced. "What happened?"

"Lay still," he instructed, laying a hand gently on her shoulder as pure joy enveloped him, tempered only by the knowledge that she was aching from where the quills had pierced her skin. "You were wounded."

"The creature." Her worried gaze taking him in, she asked, "Are you harmed?"

He smiled warmly at her as his world became right again. "I'm fine."


End file.
